Electrocatalysis
by 12cubed
Summary: Elle gets a new assignment from her dad. And this time, it involves the Petrellis.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

_God_, thought Elle. _Those Petrellis sure are drama queens._

She'd been forced to sit through every single one of Nathan Petrelli's super-boring speeches over the past year, after her dad had decided it was worth keeping an eye on them. He thought it was "necessary preparation for understanding their dynamic." She thought it was a yawn-fest.

Anyway, this one wasn't that bad: a slow start, maybe, but it sure had ended with a bang.

Elle stood in front of the TV, watching as Peter cradled his brother, calling his name.

So that was where he'd been. She thought it was pretty stupid to try and talk to someone who was going to be deader than a doornail in about ten seconds, even if it was your brother.

Just how was a doornail dead, anyway? Well, whatever--doornail or not, it was pretty clear that "dead" was exactly what brother dearest was going to be, in ten, nine, eight...

Her phone was ringing.

"Hi, Daddy." Static crackled in her ears. She walked over to the window; someone should tell Suresh that the reception in his stupid lab totally sucked. "You'll never guess what I did! Sylar was here and--"

"Not right now, Elle."

"But--"

"You have work to do."

"Really?" Elle brightened up. Maybe he already knew about the way she'd knocked Sylar out. Or maybe--maybe he wasn't putting her back into the field, just giving her paperwork. She hated paperwork.

"What kind of work?"

"I'm giving you a new assignment," said Bob. "Or rather, a continuation of your old one."

He didn't sound happy--but he didn't sound mad anymore, either. Cause for a cautiously optimistic yay? "So I'm back in the game?"

"You're on probation." There was a pause, before Bob went on, "I'm giving you one more chance, Elle. You have to show me that I'm making the right choice by trusting you."

"Don't worry, daddy." Elle nodded, even though she knew her father couldn't see her. She wasn't benched anymore. He was giving her another chance. "I won't let you down."

* * *

Claire sat down, gripping the remote in her hands.

Peter was alive. Peter was alive and he and Nathan were together. And Nathan had just been shot.

It was too much to take in all at once. Where the hell had Peter been all this time? Why hadn't he contacted them? How did he and Nathan end up in Odessa, of all places? Who shot Nathan?

No--she didn't have time for questions right now. Claire tried to grab onto something, anything: she had to think--she had to focus. She had to do something.

She was the only one in the house. She didn't know where her dad was--she wasn't sure she wanted to know--and her mom had taken Lyle to soccer practice.

Claire sat still for three more seconds before she finally made up her mind. She wrote a note and stuck it on the fridge, then ran up to her room and pulled out an old, battered envelope from one of her drawers.

Fifty-four dollars. Would that get her to Texas? Probably not. But she knew where her mom kept her emergency cash fund.

Ten minutes later, Claire was on her way to the airport.

* * *

Peter inserted the needle into his vein. Somewhere, far off in the distance, he could hear machines beeping and people shouting and phones ringing, but he couldn't understand any of it. Right now, the entire world had narrowed to this room, this bed, and Nathan lying in front of him, bleeding and broken.

"Peter."

That was his name. Someone was saying his name.

He looked up to see Matt walk in.

"It's done," said Matt. "Nobody's coming in here for at least a few minutes."

"Good. Thank you." Peter pulled the needle back out of his arm. Nathan was still alive. The beep-beep-beep of the monitor was becoming increasingly urgent and frantic, but thank god--he was still alive.

This was going to work. It had to.

He emptied the syringe into the IV bag, watching as his blood billowed into red clouds inside the saline solution. He closed his eyes and prayed. It had only taken a few moments, the first time--only a few moments before the gaping wounds and sores on Nathan's body had healed, leaving him healed and whole.

Only a few moments--but the seconds ticked by and nothing happened.

"No." Peter watched as Nathan's heart rate climbed to a hundred and twenty, a hundred and forty, a hundred and sixty beats per minute, then disintegrated into irregularity. A fragment from one of his textbooks flashed into his brain: ventricular tachycardia. Tension pneumothorax. He knew what this meant, knew what came next.

But it couldn't happen. Not to Nathan. No.

Just then, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"You can't save him, Peter. But I can."

He turned to see her standing in the doorway.

"Elle."

* * *

"Hi, Peter." Elle walked into the room, keeping her steps slow and deliberate. She recognized the guy standing next to him: Matt Parkman. He'd been listed in Peter's files. Nobody could say she didn't do her homework.

Peter was staring at her. "You can save him?"

"Yup." Elle raised her arm to show Peter the case she was carrying. Damn this sling--it ruined the effect. Still, he looked suitably impressed. "It's all here," she said. "One miracle cure, coming up."

Peter's eyes widened, and he took a step towards her.

Oh, this was going to be fun. Now he'd see who was in control. She considered making him say please, the way he'd made her. She knew he would. And it would serve him right.

But no--she couldn't afford to make any mistakes. There would be plenty of time for games later.

Elle lifted the case onto the bed and snapped it open, revealing a syringe filled with blood.

She turned and smiled at Peter. "We got it from Adam when he was with us. You know, before you helped him escape and almost destroy the world?"

She'd expected Peter to be hurt, or mad, or something: she'd thought he would react in some way. But he didn't.

He only said, "I'll do it," before taking the syringe and turning back to his brother.

Elle watched him inject the blood into the IV. When he finished he stood back, looking down at Nathan's face.

She waited for him to turn around and say something to her, but he didn't.

Finally she said, raising her voice slightly, "It's going to take longer this time, you know. Since he was almost dead."

He didn't reply--he just went on staring at his brother. Oh please. Like they wouldn't know it if he woke up. It would be kind of obvious, duh.

She spotted a stool in the corner and went to sit down, stepping around the bandages and tubes strewn on the linoleum floor. Could be a long wait before they got the dead man walking: might as well be comfortable.

Someone cleared his throat behind her, making her jump. Of course. Parkman.

"Um," he said. "I'll make sure everything's still okay. Outside."

Peter nodded. "Okay."

Oh, _sure_. He'd turn around for Parkman. They were probably BFFs now or something. Elle rolled her eyes. "Yeah, why don't you go do that?"

As Matt walked out, Peter's eyes met Elle's.

"Thank you."

She stared at him for a moment. Nobody had ever said that to her before. She opened her mouth to say something--she wasn't sure what, but she'd have thought of something pretty cool--when she heard the door bang open behind her.

"Peter! I saw you on TV, I came to help--"

Elle turned to see Claire rush into the room.

Well, wasn't this just the icing on the cake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Claire?" Peter soon recovered from his initial surprise. Of course she was here. It felt right.

"Peter." Claire stepped further into the room, walking past Elle without seeing her. "I--you're alive."

He couldn't say anything: he just nodded. She came up to him, her eyes wide with wonder.

"I saw you on TV, but I didn't believe it until..." Her voice broke. "You're really here."

"Yeah." Peter forced himself to speak.

Claire walked up to the bed. "Is he--"

"He'll be okay." His eyes strayed towards Elle. Claire followed his glance, and stiffened when she saw the other girl.

She whirled around to face Peter again, her hands on her hips. "You _know_ her? What the hell is she doing here?"

He dropped his hands to his sides and looked back and forth between the two of them, surprised by Claire's reaction. They'd clearly met before--and it was just as clear that they didn't like each other.

"Peter." Claire was now glaring at him. "I asked you what the hell she was doing here."

He answered automatically, "Nathan. She came to save him."

He took a quick look back at his brother. Elle had said that it would take longer this time. But how much longer? How long had it been since he'd given Nathan the blood?

"What?" Claire raised her voice, making him turn around again. "But that's what I was going to--Why?"

Peter looked at Elle--the question hadn't occurred to him until now. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter.

Elle tilted her head to one side, a demure expression on her face. "Isn't a good deed its own reward?"

"I wasn't talking to you," said Claire. She walked around to the other side of the bed, and looked more closely at Nathan. "How did it happen?"

Peter brushed a lock of hair away from Nathan's forehead. It had gotten pretty long while he'd been gone--he wondered if Nathan had wanted to grow it, or whether he just hadn't bothered to get it cut. He looked so different now.

"We were going to tell everyone about everything, from the beginning--the Company, the bomb, our parents..." Peter's voice trailed off. "That's why Nathan held the press conference."

"I was going to do that, too," said Claire. "My dad talked me out of it."

"He was right. Bad idea." Elle spun around on her stool, swinging her legs to and fro. "They'll hunt you down and kill you."

Claire finally turned to face her. "Who's 'they'?"

Elle shrugged. "I don't know. That's all my dad told me."

Claire glared at her, crossing her arms. "My dad said that it was the Company that wanted to keep things quiet. For all we know, you're the ones who shot Nathan."

"Yeah, sure," said Elle. "We shot him just so we could bring him back to life again. Because _that's_ the big plan."

"Guys, shh." Peter held up his hand. "Look!"

He held his breath. He was sure he'd seen Nathan's left hand move just a second ago. And his bullet wounds--they were healing. Peter watched as the holes in Nathan's chest drew closed, layer upon layer of bone and muscle and membranes knitting together from the inside out as if by magic.

He stood perfectly still, watching and waiting. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, Nathan's eyelids twitched, then fluttered open.

"Peter?"

"Nathan." Peter bent down and kissed his brother on the forehead, stroking his face with trembling hands. "Thank god. You're alive. You're alive."

It was as if his senses had been switched back on again, after two hours of numbness: he could suddenly smell the sharp, chlorinated hospital bleach, hear the hum of voices in the hallway, feel the roughness of Nathan's cheek under his fingertips. Even the green tiles lining the walls looked brighter, more vibrant.

"Wow." He heard Claire gasp.

"Whoa." Peter looked up to see Matt standing in the doorway, staring at them with his mouth open. "So it worked?"

"Yeah." He smiled, feeling joy and gratitude radiating through his entire body. "Yeah, Matt, it worked."

He helped Nathan to sit up, supporting him with one arm, feeling his brother's weight against his shoulder: proof that he was living, breathing, flesh and blood.

"Claire?" Nathan blinked. "What are you--"

He caught sight of Elle. "Who are you? What am I--What the--what the hell is going on?"

* * *

"It's me, Daddy." Elle stared up at the ceiling, pressing her phone to her ear. There was a fly stuck in one of the fluorescent lights, banging its head against the frosted glass. Maybe she should zap it, put it out of its misery. Could be good target practice. No. On second thought, bad idea.

"Are you sure you can't be overheard?"

"I'm not a rookie," said Elle. Great. One mistake. One. Okay, maybe two, if you counted frying that guy in Ireland. Or three, if letting Peter go was her fault. Anyway. Just a few teensy weensy little mistakes, and he was still treating her like an amateur. "They're all busy having their little family get-together in the ER."

She peered through the window into the room she'd just left. Peter and Claire were each standing on one side of Mr. Freshly-Risen-From-The-Dead, smiling and talking and generally having a grand old time. Parkman didn't even have the sense to realize that he might as well have been invisible, as far as they were concerned.

The perfect picture of the Crazy Happy Family. God. Couldn't anyone stop them before they gave her a toothache? Or made her throw up? Or both? They'd probably break out into song any second now.

Oops--her dad was asking her something. Face, meet palm. Pay attention. "And?"

"It went fine. Petrelli Senior's alive and kicking."

"Excellent." Her dad sounded really pleased--almost as pleased as he'd been the time she'd aced her first recon. Yay. "Well done, Elle. Report to me as soon as you get back."

"Will do."

* * *

Elle was on her way out the door when she turned a corner and saw Claire standing only a few feet away. She darted back around the corridor before the other girl could see her, and strained her ears to listen. There were a lot of people passing by, but eavesdropping was in her job description: she could hear practically everything Claire was saying.

"Mom, I can't come home, not yet. I've found Peter again, and Nathan's alive, he's okay, and I need to know--"

The little brat sure could turn on the waterworks with no trouble at all. And why the hell was she freaking out, anyway? Her family--no, forget that, _families_--were alive and safe, and apparently jumping all over each other to get hold of her. You'd think she'd take a moment to stop with the poor-little-me act once in a while.

And yet the whining just wouldn't stop.

"I need to stay with them for a few days. I love you, and Dad, and Lyle, and I will be back in a few days, I promise. But I need to be here for a while. Please. Please try to understand."

Elle took a quick peek around the corner. Claire was leaning back against the wall with her eyes closed. Mother Bennet was probably giving her a lecture. That is, if she hadn't gone completely crackers on the Haitian mindwarps. Her brain was probably green Jell-O by now.

"Yes." Claire nodded. "I'm fine, I'm completely fine."

Okay, so maybe it wasn't a lecture.

A long pause, then: "I love you too, Mom."

Elle rolled her eyes. Okay, so it was going to be one of _those_ conversations. She'd heard enough. It was time to get back to New York: her dad would be waiting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Elle skipped into her dad's office and dropped a file in front of him, squinting at the bright light shining through the windows.

"There you go," she said. "My report. All the i's dotted and all the t's crossed."

She began to rock back and forth on her heels, then stopped: her dad hated that. She'd almost forgotten.

Bob picked up the papers and skimmed through them. "Good work."

"Thank you, Daddy." Elle waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she said, "Now that I'm back, do you want to hear about Sylar? Because he was this close to opening up Suresh like a can of Campbell's soup, and I--"

"I know all about your encounter with Sylar," said Bob, putting down the file. "I can't deny that your intervention came at an opportune time. However, you know better than anyone that your improvisations have proved to be a liability in other cases."

"Okay." Elle stared down at her feet, pressing her toes into the thick carpet. So she hadn't been forgiven. Yet.

But surely taking down the Big Bad Wolf had to have earned her some brownie points. Right?

"Don't let your guard down." Bob got up and came around to stand in front of her, leaning back against his desk. He was lit from behind by the sunlight flooding into the room, his face in shadow. Tactical Positioning 101: she'd learned it years ago. Never let them see you first.

"You've earned Peter's trust," he said. "He knows you. Don't hold back--remind him that you saved his brother's life, if you have to. And watch out for Claire."

"I know what to do," said Elle, pouting. As if she'd let that _Bring It On_ wannabe get the better of her again. Now, Peter and Claire: _they_ were amateurs. "You don't have to keep coddling me."

Bob shook his head. "If you want me to give you more independence, then you'll have to prove that you're worthy of it." He went back to his chair and sat down. "I know you think I'm being hard on you, but that's only because I know your full potential."

Elle nodded. She knew that. He'd been telling her that since she was eight years old. And it was true. She was special. Way better than Claire Bennet and her stupid family. Or families. Whatever.

Bob leaned back, placing the tips of his fingers together. "As I said, you've earned Peter's trust. And I can tell you that with this last assignment you've done a lot to regain _my_ trust as well."

Elle beamed. Gold star. Awesome.

"Remember, Elle," Bob continued, "By entrusting you with this task, I'm demonstrating how much confidence I have in you. I expect you to return the compliment. Don't disappoint me."

Her dad turned away, opening another folder. She knew what that meant: she should go.

Elle turned to leave, then stopped. "Daddy?"

She wanted to ask him what he'd done to her. Bennet had said--but it couldn't be true. He'd made her dad sound worse than he was, because they hated each other. And Bennet hated her, too, because she helped kidnap his precious baby. Why would he have told her the truth?

Maybe her dad would tell her if she got this right. Given what she was going to do...Maybe.

Unless this was a test, too. Maybe he'd only tell her if she _didn't_ ask.

"What is it, Elle?" Bob turned back to her, peering at her over his glasses. "I don't have all day."

Elle gave him her brightest smile. "Will you get me anything if I nail this assignment?"

Bob raised his eyebrows. "You know what I always say. Your work should be its own reward."

"Of course." She looked down at her free hand, inspecting the fingernails. Ew, she'd chipped one. She'd have to fix that. "Um, Daddy?"

"Yes?" Her father sighed and put down his notes, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice.

"What did you do with Bennet?"

"Ah, yes." Bob looked pleased. "He's coming to work for us again."

"What? Why?"

"We made him an offer," said Bob. "In exchange for leaving his family alone. There'll be no danger of Claire exposing us to the public now. The Company is quite safe."

"Great," said Elle. So Bennet had come back. It figured. Anything for his precious Claire-bear.

She arranged her face into a scornful expression and lifted her chin. "So," she said. "He's pretty dumb, huh."

"Well," said Bob, "Bennet does have his weaknesses. And it would be remiss of us not to exploit them. You should bear that in mind if and when you encounter him again."

"Sure."

Yeah. Her dad was right. It was a weakness. Touch Claire, and Bennet would fold like cheap patio furniture. What a sap.

"Well, I guess I'll get going, then," she said. She walked to the door and opened it, hearing the familiar click as she turned the handle.

"Goodbye, Elle. And remember what I told you."

* * *

Peter held the door open for Claire as they followed Nathan into the house. They'd dropped Matt off at his place on the way.

He looked up at the wide, curving staircase and into the rooms beyond it, listening for the usual background noise of servants working in the kitchen and laundry, but there was only silence. Then he noticed that the dark mahogany banisters were covered with a fine, gritty layer of dust.

Peter realized with a start that the house had been empty for at least a week, maybe two. Now he knew why the musty coldness in the air had felt familiar: it reminded him of their second home at the beginning of summer vacation.

Sure enough, when he peeked into the dining room he saw that all the furniture was swathed in dust sheets. He turned around to see Nathan and Claire watching him.

"Where's Heidi?" he asked. "And Simon and Monty? Are they okay? Are they--"

"She's at her folks," said Nathan. "She took the kids with her. They're fine."

Something in his voice stopped Peter from asking any more questions. He walked up to Nathan.

"You look tired," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the tightness in the muscles beneath his shirt. "You should get some rest. We all should."

"Yeah, okay," said Nathan. He turned to Claire. "I'll show you your room."

"I remember where it is," she said, clutching her bag to her chest. Peter noticed that her hands were shaking a little. "I stayed there before."

"You don't need to stay hidden up in the attic," said Nathan. "Not this time."

For a split second, Claire looked hurt and lost. Then she was back to normal: so quickly that Peter thought he'd imagined it. Or would have, if he hadn't seen the same expression on her face only a few months ago, when she'd watched Nathan welcoming his boys home.

"Come on." Nathan walked over to the stairs. Claire looked back at Peter, hesitating.

Peter smiled at her. "It's okay," he said. "I'll come up and see you later."

"Okay." She turned and followed Nathan upstairs.

* * *

Peter stood in front of the shelves in the library, searching for something to read. He probably wasn't going to get much sleep tonight, he might as well be prepared. He had just picked up one of the books, when he turned to see Nathan walk in.

"Hey. Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just looking for something to read."

Nathan came up to him, glancing at the book in his hand. "_The Audacity of Hope_? Please tell me you're kidding."

"I found it in your library."

"One of my aides got it for background reading during the election. I don't carry it around as a spiritual guide. I haven't even gotten past the first chapter."

"Actually, I think you'd like it," said Peter. He placed the book back on the shelf. "It's kind of weird, being back at home."

Nathan turned away, looking slightly uncomfortable. "The apartment's still yours, too. If you want it."

"Thanks," said Peter. He knew Nathan had kept it, safe and ready for when he came back. When, not if. And he also knew that it wasn't the right place for him, not yet. "But...I'd rather stay here."

"Okay." Nathan didn't say anything else, but Peter could see his shoulders relax a little, his posture become less stiff.

"How's Claire doing?" he asked. "Did her mom call again?"

"Yeah. She talked her into letting her stay for a few more days. She seems fine." Nathan shrugged. "To be honest, I can't really tell."

"It might take her a while, but I think she's glad to be here," said Peter. "You just need to talk to her."

"Her family's in California," said Nathan. "She'll go back eventually."

"You don't know that." Peter crossed his arms, leaning against the shelves. "She wants to get to know you, too."

Nathan picked up one of the photographs from the shelf in front of him. It showed him with one arm around each of his sons. The sun was shining.

"Nathan." Peter spoke quietly. "What happened with Heidi?"

"She left." Nathan put the picture back. "She thinks I'm going crazy. Like Pa. All this talk about flying and superpowers and the bomb. Not to mention all the things that happened around the election. Delusions of grandeur. She took the kids away to keep them safe." He turned back to Peter. "Funny, isn't it. My own lie comes back to bite me in the ass."

"What?" Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Heidi wouldn't--can't you show her it's all true? Show her you can fly, she'd believe that."

Nathan shook his head. "It's not that easy." He didn't sound angry: just exhausted, and resigned. Flat. "Some things can't be fixed, Peter. Maybe if I'd told her, back when all this started, it would have been different. But we're beyond that now."

"No, you're not," said Peter. "It's your family, Nathan. They're your sons. It'll work out, in the end."

"Too many things have happened. Too many lies, too many secrets. We can't just go back and pretend nothing's changed. And who knows, maybe Simon and Monty are better off without me. I'm not winning any awards for father of the year."

"You know that's not true," said Peter. "And the most important things never change."

He put a hand in his pocket, and pulled out the picture of him and Nathan that he'd carried all the way from New York to Montreal to Odessa. Somehow, through all the chaos and time-traveling and insanity of the past few days, it had survived--still in one piece, if a little creased in places.

"You said you don't know who you are without me," he said. "Turns out it works both ways."

"Peter--"

"The whole time I was gone," said Peter, "I could feel something was missing. Then, in Texas--you were there, Nathan. You were right there. And it felt like...like waking up after a bad dream, you know?"

He brushed his thumb lightly across Nathan's jawline, running it over the scar.

Then they both moved at the same time: Nathan putting his hand on Peter's shoulder, Peter wrapping his arm around Nathan's back, pulling each other close.

When they finally let go, Peter stood back, waiting for Nathan to say something. But he merely looked at Peter for a few seconds, studying his face intently.

Finally, he said, "I'm glad you're here." A long pause, then: "I missed you."

Peter smiled. "You said that already."

"Yeah, well--" Nathan turned to leave. "I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

Claire lay on the bed, sinking back into the giant down pillows, and looked around the room. She'd known that the Petrellis were rich--that had been obvious from the very first time she'd set foot in this house. I mean, it wasn't every family that had a butler and an entire team of maids. And the clothes Angela had given her had been really, really nice: though not exactly her style.

But even though she'd seen it all before, her surroundings were still a little intimidating. She stared at the white marble fireplace, which had rosettes carved into the corners. Who needed a fire in their bedroom? Of course, it was probably just for show. She liked the balcony, though. And her bathroom was amazing. Seriously, Hollywood amazing, with wall-to-wall mirrors and limestone tiles and an enormous cast-iron tub that was big enough for her to drown in, with chrome fittings everywhere. The only other place she'd seen a bathroom like that had been in _Pretty Woman_.

But it still felt like she was staying in a hotel. Not a home. Certainly not _her_ home. She'd half-expected to find a chocolate mint on her pillow. It was stupid, but she wished she had just one of her stuffed bears with her.

Nathan had said that once the election was over, she could come back from Paris to stay with the Petrellis. Well, the election was over. And she was back in New York. But she didn't know if she'd come here to be with her family...or if she'd left them behind.

Claire sat up. Someone was knocking on the door.

"It's me." Peter's voice came through the thick wood, muffled and indistinct. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." She ran up to let him in, using both hands to pull the door open. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He walked in and sat on the sofa at the foot of the bed. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Me either." Claire threw herself back onto the counterpane, hugging a cushion to her chest.

She tried to think of something to say. She'd spent the last four months thinking she'd go crazy if she didn't have someone to talk to about everything that was confusing and frightening and exciting in her life, someone who would get it.

And now, she'd finally got her wish, and she was sitting here completely tongue-tied.

"Are you okay?" She looked up to find Peter watching her, looking concerned. "I know it's all been a shock, first the shooting, then coming here again--"

"I'm fine," said Claire. "Really, I am."

She hesitated, wondering what to say next--but Peter spoke first.

"How've you been? Is your family--are they all right?"

"Yeah. That is, I think so," said Claire, remembering the last time she'd seen her father. "We moved to California."

"Did you like it there?"

She sat back, thinking. She hadn't really considered that before--almost everything their family had done after Kirby Plaza had been dictated by necessity. They hadn't had the luxury of being able to worry about whether or not they were enjoying themselves.

"I don't know," she said slowly. "We were hiding. We had fake names. I couldn't talk to anyone about my powers--I hated that." She turned back to Peter. "I was lonely."

Well--that wasn't quite true. She'd had West. But it hadn't been enough, somehow.

Peter didn't say anything: he merely nodded. Claire realized with a rush of relief that she didn't have to explain anything else. He understood.

She stared at her hands, trying to work up the nerve to go on. She'd heard the basics of what had happened to Peter and Nathan back in Texas, but there were still a million questions that she wanted to ask. Including what had happened to him at the Company.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Peter spoke. "We need to figure out who did this."

He leaned over the back of the sofa, resting one arm on the bed.

"Okay." Claire played with the tassels on her cushion, running the silky threads between her fingers. "I still think it was the Company. I mean, you said you were in the Company vault when Nathan came up with the idea of the Press Conference."

"But then why would they send Elle to save him?" Peter shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. Unless--unless she found out that they were going to kill him, and just decided to save him on her own."

Claire rolled her eyes. Only Peter could have come up with such a crazy theory. If he hadn't told her himself, she'd never have believed that he'd spent four months with Elle. Four months. She'd barely spent four days with Peter, altogether. Life wasn't fair.

"Oh please," said Claire. "She'd never do something like that."

Just then, the doorbell rang, making Claire jump in alarm.

Peter got up. "Who'd be looking for us here?"

The door opened, and Nathan came in. "Did you guys hear that?"

The bell rang again, longer and more insistent this time.

"It's probably a salesman," said Nathan. "Or some charity organization. Great. Just what we need right now."

"We should still check," said Peter, heading for the door. "I'll go."

"I'll come with you." Claire bounced off the bed.

She followed Peter out of the room and stopped halfway down the stairs, watching him walk up to the front door. When he opened it, she leaned over the banisters, trying to get a better look.

Then she saw who it was. Claire couldn't believe it. Of all the nerve--

"Elle?" Peter sounded surprised, too.

Elle walked into the house without waiting for an invitation. She glanced upwards, catching sight of Claire. Their eyes met for a second, before Elle turned back to Peter.

"Hi," she said, smiling. Claire began to wish she'd just punched her in the teeth the last time they'd met.

Elle reached out and placed a hand on Peter's chest, before trailing her fingers upwards to tug on his collar.

"I need a favor."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Elle looked up at Peter, anticipation mingling with exasperation.

God, didn't he ever smile? Looking at him, you'd think the world actually had come to an end. So he'd almost blown up New York and his brother had almost died. It was still an almost, wasn't it? They were all fine, weren't they? So why the Mr. Cranky-Pants?

He probably smiled for Claire. And his tight-ass lawyer brother.

Still. He was pretty. And this time, she got to tell him what to do. Wind him up and watch him go.

"A favor?" Peter looked down at Elle. "What's the matter? Are you in trouble?"

"Only if you want me to be," she said, batting her eyelashes. She kept one eye on Claire. If looks could kill, she'd have burst into flames two seconds ago.

Should she mention the kiss? Pro: total pwnage. Con: a black eye.

Okay, her dad was right. Provoking Claire unnecessarily was a bad idea. Fun, but a bad idea. "Unnecessarily" being the operative word, of course.

She moved her hand from Peter's collar to stroke down his arm, letting the tiniest hint of static escape from her fingertips.

"I don't want to play games, Elle."

"When did you stop being fun?" She pouted. "All right, fine."

Maybe he was still mad about her turning his Irish friend into overdone barbecue. Elle peered at Peter's face, trying to read his expression. No, he didn't look mad. Just...tired.

She dropped her hand, placing it on her hip. Okay, change of tactic. The mega-watt-beauty-queen smile was probably the wrong idea with this one: she'd do better with quiet and innocent.

"I want you to help me get my files from my dad," she said.

"What?"

Elle sighed impatiently. "My dad," she said. "You remember him, right? He has files. On me. On everything they did to me at the Company. I want to know, and he won't tell me."

"Aren't they in his office?"

"They were," she said. "He's moved all of them somewhere else. Someplace safer. I think he's getting paranoid. I can't get at them anymore, but you can."

"Oh," said Peter. "Well..."

Elle wondered if she should say something. She wasn't too worried--she had her line all rehearsed about how she'd saved Nathan and he owed his brother's life to her, complete with the big teary eyes, in case he resisted.

"Peter." Elle turned to see Nathan walking down the stairs. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

Oh great. Now he was getting in on the act.

"Yeah, sure." Peter turned back to Elle. "Sorry, could you excuse us?"

"No problem." She moved towards the living room door. She had to hand it to her Dad: his blueprints were perfect. Had he got surveyors in here disguised as butlers, or something? "I'll wait in here."

"I'll keep an eye on her," said Claire. "Make sure she doesn't touch anything."

_Too late for that,_ thought Elle. But she wasn't going to pass up a chance for some quality one-on-one time with Claire-bear.

"Keep the door open," said Nathan. "And don't try anything."

"I can handle her," said Claire indignantly. "It's not like she can kill me."

"And I'm not stupid," said Elle, leaning against the doorway. "If I wanted to go all Charlie's Angels on Little Miss Sunshine here I could have done it a million other ways. We're a lot better at this than you are, though that's not exactly hard."

Nathan didn't say anything: he just glared at her. Elle narrowed her eyes. Okay. Probably better not to cross this one. "I got it," she said, walking into the room. She glanced back over her shoulder at Peter. "Don't keep me waiting."

* * *

Peter followed Nathan into the study, leaving the door open so they could see Claire and Elle in the room across the hall. They seemed to have reached a temporary truce: well, at least they weren't yelling at each other.

The light from the lamps reflected off the peach-colored walls, bathing everything in a warm glow. The last time he and Nathan had been in here was the last time they'd all been together, before Kirby Plaza--they'd talked about Claire. And Nathan had told Claire that he could fly.

Nathan's desk was a mess. There were stacks of paper piled all over it, and an empty bottle of whisky stood next to two cut-glass tumblers. The air felt stale and heavy. Peter looked over at his brother, who was standing with his back to the window, staring at the floor. Maybe he was remembering, too.

Nathan finally looked up, and walked over to join Peter by the fireplace. "These files she's talking about," he said, keeping his voice low, "They have to have records on us, too--probably in the same room."

"I saw something like that in Bob's office," said Peter. "He said he was friends with Mom and Dad."

"They were all in it together, at the Company," said Nathan. "If we could find those files, we might be able to get some answers."

Their parents. Matt had said something about his dad and their mom, back at the Company vault. Bob had been with them in that picture Adam had shown him. And their mother had known about their powers, long before they did...

"I guess so." Peter glanced at the family photographs above the fireplace. One of them showed them standing on either side of their mother. They were all smiling.

He turned to look at Nathan, who was also staring at the pictures. Their eyes met.

Peter knew that it wasn't just simple curiosity that was driving Nathan. Something else was worrying him--something bigger.

"Nathan. Just tell me." He put a hand on Nathan's shoulder, making him look up.

"I think it might have been her."

"What might have?"

Nathan hesitated, then said, "The shooting."

"No way." Peter shook his head firmly. "She'd never do that."

"Peter, she was willing to blow you up to put me in the White House."

"But she knew I wouldn't die. She wouldn't understand about the other--but she wouldn't have killed me. Not ever." Nathan was tired and angry: he wasn't thinking straight. Their mother would never, ever do something like that--Peter was sure of that. He looked into Nathan's eyes, willing him to understand. "She's our mom. She loves us. Look, I met her in the future, okay? You were...you were dead. And the first thing she asked me to do was to save you."

Nathan shook his head. "Circumstances change. You met her in one future. One out of a billion possible futures. That doesn't mean she couldn't have wanted me dead a couple of days ago."

"No," said Peter. "You're wrong."

"Fine," said Nathan. "It's not important, anyway."

Peter considered trying to convince Nathan one more time, then decided against it. His brother was right: Bob's files could help them a lot. It might even help them find out who really shot Nathan.

"Why don't we offer a trade?" asked Peter. "Her files for ours."

"Too dangerous," said Nathan. "If she told Bob, we'd be in even more trouble."

"Okay, so we don't tell her," said Peter. "I'll just...go along and see what I can find. We can always go back later, alone, once I know how to get in."

"You're sure it's worth the risk?"

"I'm sure," said Peter. "Come on, Nathan. It's like you said--we could finally get to the bottom of all this."

"Yeah." Nathan stood still for a long time, arms crossed, staring at the wall in front of him. Finally, he turned back to Peter and nodded. "Okay. Let's try it."

* * *

"Hey." Claire heard Elle's voice behind her, but kept staring straight ahead. She wasn't going to rise to the bait. She sat down on one of the chairs and grasped the seat in both hands, casting a quick glance towards the open doorway. She could see Peter and Nathan standing over the fireplace, heads bent together, whispering.

Elle walked around to stand in front of her, blocking her view. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Cat got your tongue?"

Claire didn't say anything. Let her talk if she wanted to.

"Wow," said Elle, opening her eyes wide in mock astonishment. "You're really giving me the silent treatment, aren't you? I'm so hurt."

Claire leaned back in her chair and away turned her head.

"Oooh. You're _determined._" Elle remained standing, leaning against one of the tables. "That's the spirit!" She waved an imaginary pom-pom. "Be. Aggressive. Be-e. Aggressive."

"Wow," said Claire. "You probably think you're funny, but really you're just kind of pathetic."

"Says the girl who got all weepy at her dad's fake funeral." Elle smirked. "Aren't you going to say thank you?"

Claire's head snapped back around. Thank her? For what? For zapping her and West out of the sky? For almost getting her dad killed? For keeping Peter locked away for four months and doing god knows what to him?

"You're kidding, right?"

"Well, we _did_ bring both your daddies back from the dead," said Elle. "Not to mention giving one of them a job. He's one of us now. Do you want me to say 'Hi' to him for you, or anything?"

"He's not one of you." Claire looked the other girl straight in the eyes. "He did it for our family. He did it for me."

The smile on Elle's face switched off instantly. "You don't want to get on my wrong side, sweetie," she said. Checking quickly to see that Peter and Nathan weren't watching, she raised her hand. A cloud of sparks crackled between her fingers.

Claire's teeth tingled unpleasantly; she felt the air between them become thinner, charged.

"For starters," said Elle, "I thought you'd want to ask. About Peter."

"Ask what?" The words slipped out before Claire could stop them.

Elle grinned. "You know what."

"No, I don't," said Claire. She spoke through clenched teeth. "If you've got anything to say, just say it."

"Oh come on," said Elle. "You're not the slightest bit curious about what we did to him while he was at the Company?" She raised her eyebrows. "About what _I_ did?"

"I know what you did," said Claire. "I heard, back at the hospital. You kept him locked up. Like a prisoner."

"Oh, that makes it sound so boring," said Elle. She jumped up onto the arm of the sofa. "He _asked_ us to take him. And we did a lot more than that. We've got a whole filing cabinet on Peter Parker. He was the best toy ever."

Claire looked up. A toy? Maybe they'd hurt him. Maybe they'd experimented on him. No--this was Elle she was talking to. She was a psychopath. She'd say anything to get a response.

"I don't care how many files you have," said Claire. "You don't know anything about him."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Elle, smiling sweetly once again. "That depends on what you mean by _know_."

"Shut. Up."

Elle slid off the sofa. "He likes it when you spark him," she said. "Even though he pretends not to. Sometimes he made me beg. It was fun." She walked up to Claire, holding her free hand behind her back. "I cut his hair. Did he tell you that?"

No. He hadn't. Claire tried to ignore Elle's voice. She should just run out of the room. She should stick her fingers in her ears until Elle went away.

Elle was standing right in front of her now, looking down at her. "He dreams a lot. He talks in his sleep, you know. He says his brother's name, sometimes. Once, he said yours." She tilted her head to one side, looking amused. "Heard enough?"

Claire resisted the urge to slap the other girl across the face. "Stop it."

Elle's lips curved into a smile. "Say uncle."

"All right, that's it!" Claire leaped off her chair and landed in front of Elle, leaning forward until their faces were only inches apart. She raised her fist. "You say one more word, and this time I'm really going to punch you in the face!"

"Claire." She turned to see Nathan standing in the doorway, with Peter behind him. Lowering her arm, she took a few steps back, still glaring at Elle.

Nathan walked up to them. "We've talked about it," he said, "And we're going to help you. Well, Peter is."

"What?" Claire couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What if they kidnap you, like they did to me? What if it's a trap? What if--"

"What if we get sucked into a timewarp and never come back? Geez." Elle rolled her eyes. "I've been doing this since you were in kindergarten. Take a chill pill."

Claire opened her mouth to protest further, but Nathan shook his head.

"Not now, Claire." He turned back to Elle. "I think you'd better get going."

"Thanks," said Elle. She winked at Peter, before turning to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As soon as she was gone, Claire whirled around to face Peter. "What do you think you're doing?"

"It's all right," said Peter. "Nathan thinks--"

"I don't care what Nathan thinks! We can't trust her!" Claire knew she was yelling, but she thought the occasion called for it. Why couldn't Peter see that he was making a huge mistake?

"Claire." Peter walked up to her. "She saved Nathan. The least I can do is help her with this."

Of course, they were back to that again. He's my brother. She saved my brother's life. As if that was the answer to everything--just look where that had got them four months ago. "Just because she helped Nathan doesn't mean she's good!"

Peter flinched as if Claire had struck him. She realized that she'd hit a nerve--she didn't know how, but looking at the hurt and bewildered expression on his face, she wished she could take it back.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

"No, it's okay." He stared down at the floor, before looking back up at Claire. "She's like us," he said, speaking quietly. "Her dad did things to her--tested her, experimented on her, used her. And she wants to know. I think she has a right to know."

Claire suddenly remembered what her dad had told her when she'd asked him about her powers: he'd said that the Company would lock her up in a cage, cut her open, treat her like a lab rat. She'd never thought about what they might have done to Elle.

"And," Peter continued, "If Bob has files on Elle, he'll have files on us, too. And our parents. Nathan saw them in Bob's office. They could help us. We could find out who was behind the shooting."

Claire glanced at Nathan, surprised. She hadn't considered that. She turned back to Peter, who was watching her, waiting for her response.

Looking at him, she realized that there was no point in arguing: he was going to help Elle, end of story. She wasn't really surprised.

Claire swallowed hard, then nodded. "Okay," she said.

Peter smiled. "Okay?"

"Yeah," said Claire. "Don't get me wrong. I still hate her. But if you want to help, then go ahead."

"Thank you."

"It's not like I can stop you, anyway." She gave Peter a grudging smile.

Nathan checked his watch. "Well, now that we've got that sorted out, maybe we can finally get some sleep."

Claire suddenly realized she was exhausted--the buzz from the day before was beginning to wear off.

"Fine," she said. "I'm going to bed." She ran towards the stairs, then stopped with one hand on the banister.

"Goodnight."

Peter and Nathan both nodded. "Goodnight, Claire."

Claire walked up to her room and collapsed on the bed, without even bothering to change her clothes. She stared at the ceiling, remembering what Elle had said to her. Peter had been at the Company for four months--she hadn't really thought about it before, but it was a long time. What had they really done to him?

And just how well did he know Elle, anyway?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Peter stood in the alley across the street from the Company building, looking up. It was dark, and almost everyone had gone home for the night: but he could still see a light in one or two windows. Maybe some employees were working late. Or a janitor was inside, cleaning the rooms.

Elle poked him in the arm. "Hey. Dopey. We don't have all night." She smiled. "Well, not for this, anyway."

"Oh, right. Sorry." Peter looked down at her. "What now?"

"First you turn us invisible so we don't show up on the security cameras. Then we go in. Here's the key."

She pressed something small and cold into one of his hands: he could almost feel the familiar tingle of electricity as her fingertips brushed his skin. He held out the other one, palm facing up.

"You want me to spark you?" Elle raised her eyebrows. "You'll have to say please."

"No," he said. "This is for--you'll stay invisible as long as we're in contact."

"Yeah, I know," said Elle. "Just thought we could make this a little more interesting."

She reached out and placed her free hand in his, interlacing their fingers. Her other arm was in a sling, he'd noticed that earlier. "How'd you hurt yourself?"

"What are we, friends now?" said Elle. "I'm not like your little cheerleader. Not real big on midnight snacks and cute bonding sessions."

"I was just curious, I guess."

Elle bit her lip, staring down at her feet. Finally she said, "Bennet shot me. After I zapped Claire."

"Oh." Claire hadn't told him about that. He wondered why Bob hadn't used Adam's blood to heal the injury. It wasn't serious, but it was still a gunshot wound: it had to be painful.

Before he could say anything, Elle turned away. "Let's just get this done."

"Okay." Peter closed his eyes, trying to remember Claude. He had a brief flash of a cold, windy rooftop, the fluttering of wings. A bitter, cynical voice mocking the entire world, and everyone in it. After a few seconds he felt the familiar sensation of invisibility slipping over him, like a suit of cold water.

"Here's how it's going to work," Elle whispered. "You only have to use one power at a time. Just follow my lead. I'll show you where to phase through the walls: the security cameras have blind spots where you can drop the invisibility. The last room has motion detectors--you'll have to disable the security system and unlock the door."

"How can I do that?" said Peter. "I can use electricity, but that's your power, too."

"And you think my dad wouldn't notice a burnt-out fuse box?" Peter started in pain as a shock darted from Elle's fingers to his. "You're not going to use my power. You're going to use the Boy Wonder's. Tiny Tim's."

"Who?"

"Oh, you don't know," said Elle. "He was at Kirby Plaza. You met his mom--she put the smackdown on Sylar with a parking meter. Remember?"

Peter did remember. He wondered what had happened to them--the boy's father had been hurt.

"What were their names?"

"Oh good grief, who _cares_?" For a moment, Elle looked like she was going to jolt him again, but she didn't. "The kid's name is Micah. His mom was Niki. And they all lived in a nice yellow house with a picket fence and a dog called Spot. Happy now?"

Peter nodded. "So Micah's power is what? Electronics?"

"Pretty much. Okay, enough talking. Let's go." Elle pulled him across the street.

He recognized the building as soon as they walked in, even in the near-darkness: the faintly antiseptic smell of the corridors, the feeling of the linoleum under his feet, the way their footsteps echoed through the hallways.

Elle led the way, carefully avoiding the occasional Company employee, walking down flight after flight of stairs, turning left, then right, then right again without even pausing for thought. She knew this building inside out. Of course--she lived here. Had lived here for sixteen years. He'd only stayed for four months and he'd still felt like he was going crazy. The entire place felt like a prison. Or worse, an asylum.

Peter felt a sudden burst of pity for Elle, though he knew better than to say so. He just went on following her, feeling her small hand tugging on his.

The first few floors were fairly straightforward, with only the odd security guard patrolling the halls. Peter soon became familiar with Elle's signals: a slight pressure from her hand warning him to stop; a nod of her head telling him it was safe to move again. Every so often she would indicate a door, and they would phase through. Once they reached the corridors equipped with surveillance cameras, they had to move more slowly--Elle maneuvering them out of their range of view before Peter slipped off the invisibility and pulled them into the concrete walls.

Finally, she stopped in front of a set of double doors. Unlike most of the others they'd passed, these didn't have glass windows set into them: they were made of brushed steel, bordered with rivets. Even though they were several floors underground, Peter thought he could feel a light breeze coming from somewhere--probably a ventilator.

Elle turned to face him, still holding his hand. "This is it. Room 7B-101. Hacking time."

Peter now noticed the keypad next to the doors. He walked up and placed his hand over it, concentrating.

Disable the security system. He could do that.

He closed his eyes, thinking back to Kirby Plaza, and the dim memory of a boy kneeling next to his father.

_"Mom! Dad needs you!"_

Peter felt a chill rush from his brain to his fingertips and into the wall, and then he could sense the network of wires and transistors and chips running through the building, radiating and separating before converging again, circuits slotting together neatly like pieces in a puzzle.

Slowly, carefully, he isolated the room in front of them. _Turn off,_ he thought. _Switch off. Open up._

There was a click, and the doors slid open.

"Okay, it's done." Peter opened his eyes. "Can we--do we still need to hold hands? I think the cameras got turned off."

"No, we don't need to." Elle glanced at him for a second, before abruptly dropping his hand and walking into the room. "Do you need a therapy session every time you use your powers? No wonder you almost went nuclear."

She turned and kept walking without waiting for his reply.

The room was lit by dim fluorescent lights, one of which kept flickering on and off. Peter looked around at the walls: they were lined by filing cabinets that reached from the floor to the ceiling, all neatly marked with typewritten labels. He read the nearest one.

_Adam Monroe._

"What's so fascinating?" He looked around to see Elle standing next to him.

"Nothing," he said. "It's just...Adam."

She let out an impatient sigh. "Oh, not this again. What is the big deal?"

"The big deal is that I could have released the Virus," said Peter. He felt a sudden surge of anger. Towards Elle, towards the Company, towards Adam, towards himself, towards everything and nothing in particular. "I could have--I saw that future. I could have created it. Everyone could have died. Nathan was--"

"But you didn't. And he isn't," said Elle. "Crying, spilt milk, do I have to say it, hello? And your milk's in the bottle, Peter. So stop crying. And help me find my files."

"Okay." Peter took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. He looked around the walls, scanning the labels. "There," he said, pointing. "Elle Bishop."

Elle ran over to the cabinet, her heels clacking against the concrete floor, and wrenched it open. She pulled out a ring binder full of papers.

"Score!" She turned back to Peter. "Get the other one."

He walked over, and lifted out a second binder identical to the first. "So what, do we just take these and go?"

"You really are a greenhorn, huh." Elle was staring at him with a look of disbelief on her face. "These are _important_. My dad would know if anything was gone. We need to make copies."

"You mean we have to go back out there again? What if we get caught?"

"We've made it this far, don't chicken out on me now."

* * *

Their second trip was easier than Peter had expected: they'd developed something of a rhythm.

"Your company has a mailroom?" He looked around at the fax machine, the photocopier, the shelves filled with envelopes and packages. It all seemed so...ordinary.

"It's a company. Of course it has a mailroom." Elle switched on the Xerox machine, and dumped the contents of her file into one of the trays.

Peter walked up to her slowly. He watched as she stood over the machine, the bar of greenish-yellow light sweeping back and forth across her face as it spit out sheets of paper with a regular thumping rhythm.

How had she ended up at the Company? Bob had probably been involved, somehow: but then again, his parents had been founders, and he and Nathan hadn't even known the Company existed until a few months ago.

"Our parents knew each other," said Peter. Actually, come to think of it, he'd never heard a word about Elle's mother. Maybe that was one of the reasons why she wanted these files. "I've seen your dad before--he used to come to our house, when I was a kid."

"Huh?" Elle looked up. "Oh, yeah. Right. How absolutely fascinating."

She snapped her fingers, gesturing at the file in his arms. "Gimme." He handed it over.

She replaced the contents of the first binder, snapping the rings together, before dropping the papers from the second one into the machine.

"Did your dad bring you here to, you know, try and cure you?" asked Peter. "Because you were so young when you got your power. Did you hurt yourself, or something?"

Elle stopped working, then turned around to face him, looking him up and down. "Wow," she said. "You really live in your own little Walt Disney fantasy-land, don't you?" She handed the first file back to him. "I was raised and trained to work for the Company. Ever since I was a kid. This is my job. My life."

Peter didn't know what to say. Finally he said, "I'm sorry."

Elle just smiled at him. "You're sorry. For me." She switched the machine off. "Says the living, breathing A-Bomb. What makes you think you're any different?"

Peter stared at her. "I--"

Elle looked back at him for a second, before gathering the freshly printed sheets into her arms and shuffling them into two neat stacks. She handed one of them to him. The paper was still warm--they smelled like ink and burnt wiring. A few of the sheets sliced over his fingers, leaving a momentary, jagged edge of pain, before the cuts healed and disappeared.

"We're done here," said Elle, heading for the door. "Let's go."

* * *

Elle followed Peter to the gates outside his house, her footsteps ringing on the limestone paving. Jesus. She still wasn't used to it. It was an honest-to-goodness mansion, complete with French windows and white marble and wrought-iron trellis work around the door. Man, was Peter an idiot. So his dad had been in cahoots with a bunch of mobsters. At least they were stinking rich mobsters. Just take the money and run, you moron. There was no bad there.

Anyway, mission accomplished. There should be a theme tune playing, or something. Now there was an idea. She should totally have a theme tune. Super Elle-ectric Elle. She bet Claire didn't have a theme tune. Ha.

Peter stopped at the front steps, waiting for her to catch up. "Do you want to stay here, tonight?" he asked. "We have plenty of extra rooms."

Yeah, she knew that. And it sucked. One room would have been _much_ more fun.

She looked up at the windows. The curtains were drawn, but she wouldn't put it past either Claire or Nathan to spy on them. Seriously, weirdest family ever.

"A sleepover," said Elle, tilting her head to one side. "Cute. Are we going to paint our nails and swap childhood stories? You've heard all of mine."

"Actually--I've been meaning to ask you," said Peter. "About your files--can't you remember what happened to you?"

"No." That was the whole point, dumbass. "I can't."

She saw Peter's expression change as he took in what she was saying. "Oh. I'm--"

If he said he was sorry one more time...

"I understand," he finished. "Well, kind of. I should have guessed."

"Yeah, you should have," said Elle. And she should have, too. But she hadn't. Not until Bennet told her. It could still be a lie, though. Bennet lied a lot, everyone knew that. Everyone.

She shivered--it was colder than she'd thought. She should stop talking now. She should stop and leave. Never overdo it. That was a rule.

"My father loves me. It doesn't mean he doesn't love me." She looked up at Peter. "He _does_."

He nodded. "Of course he does."

"What?" Elle shook her head. Why didn't he argue? "Yeah. He does. I'm right."

"I know," said Peter. "He's your dad."

Dammit, was he going all sincere on her again? Stop it. Stop being nice. Just stop.

She wrapped her hand around one of the curlicues decorating the gate, concentrating on the cold metal edge biting into her skin. If she pressed a little harder, she'd cut herself. She wished her arm would stop itching. How many more weeks till the bandages came off? She couldn't remember.

Time to change the subject. "How did you get your memories back?" She looked back up at Peter. "That guy at the docks said you didn't know who you were."

"I healed," said Peter. "My brain regenerated."

"What?" Her head snapped up. Really? Like, for real? But that meant-- "What about me? Could I do that? Using the sparkly magic blood?"

"I don't know," said Peter slowly. "We'd have to ask Claire."

This wasn't part of the plan. She didn't know this would happen. But she wanted to know. She wanted to know so she could spit in Bennet's face and tell him that he couldn't fool her.

Should she do this? Was she really going to do this?

Was it a trick? It didn't seem like it--he was still looking at her with those stupid Bambi eyes. Stupid toy that didn't work properly. Toys were supposed to do what you wanted them to. And he didn't even come with a money-back guarantee.

She shouldn't.

Her dad would kill her.

But she wanted to.

But she shouldn't.

But--want. Want want want. Yes.

"Can we try it?" she asked. "Please."

* * *

Claire reached into the cupboard for a plastic mixing bowl, and dropped it onto the counter with a satisfying clatter. She wanted to make some noise, and since she couldn't scream, this was as good a way as any. Besides, it was better than sitting upstairs in her room staring at the clock and willing it to tick faster.

She had just arranged all the ingredients on the table when Nathan came in. He cleared his throat. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Claire smashed an egg against the side of the counter, then cracked it into a bowl. "Just fine."

Of course she was fine. Why wouldn't she be, with Elle and Peter out there, at the Company, doing whatever it was they were doing, while she sat at home? She began beating the eggs with a fork.

Nathan stepped up to stand next to her. "What are you doing?"

"Making cupcakes." She poured in some milk, then went on beating the eggs. Froth began to build up around the edges of the mixture. Her arm muscles were starting to burn, but she kind of liked the pain.

"Cupcakes."

"Yeah." She pushed the bowl to one side and began sifting flour. "My mom and I used to do it after school. We pretended it was for bake sales and charity drives, but mostly it was for fun."

Nathan didn't say anything. She finally looked up. "I'm worried."

"I know," he said. "But he'll be fine."

"How can you be sure? She's dangerous."

Claire began stirring the egg and milk mixture into the flour and sugar. She slowed down a little, remembering what her mother had told her: wet ingredients into dry. Don't overmix.

"At least they can't kill him," said Nathan.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Wow. Great. I feel so much better now."

She licked some batter off her fingers, then started pouring the cupcake mixture into a muffin pan. The first row was almost done when she heard the front door open. Someone was coming towards the kitchen: only one pair of footsteps. A few moments later, she heard Peter walk into the room.

Nathan moved away from her, towards the door. "How did it go?"

"Fine," said Peter. "I think I can get there on my own now."

"Well, it's a start."

There was a slight pause. Claire filled the last cup and stood back, dusting off her hands on her jeans.

"Claire?" Peter sounded slightly nervous. "I was wondering if I could ask you something."

"Okay." She'd intended to give him the silent treatment, but curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the muffin pan. "Go ahead."

He came over and took the pan from her hands. "I'll get that." He placed it in the oven and closed the door, before turning to face her again. "After we got back," he said, "I talked to Elle. And the reason she wants to know what her dad did to her is because he took away her memories."

"Oh." For the first time, Claire began to feel something like sympathy for the other girl.

"It happened to me, too--after I escaped from the Company," said Peter. "But the healing power gives you back your memories, too. That's how I remembered everything."

"You healed," said Claire slowly. "So if Elle...my blood. That would cure her."

"Maybe," said Peter. "She asked if we could try it."

And just like that, she was back to hating Elle again.

"Peter." At the sound of Nathan's voice, Claire looked up, startled. She'd almost forgotten he was there. He didn't look too pleased, either. "This sounds like a bad idea."

Claire knew she should be glad that Nathan agreed with her--but she didn't. She'd half expected him to come to her defense, but he was weighing pros and cons instead. "You can skip the argument," she said. "Because I'm not doing it."

"But--"

"No, forget it. I'm going upstairs." She walked over to the door, then stopped: the oven's fan was spouting hot, vanilla-scented air into the room. "You have to take the cupcakes out after twenty minutes," she said. "They'll burn."

Then she walked out. As dramatic exits went, it was kind of a failure: but she made up for it by stomping through the hallway as loudly as possible.

Claire stopped when she reached the staircase, and sat down on the bottom step.

It was a terrible idea. And she'd made up her mind: she wasn't going to do it. Not even if Peter begged her. Why should she? Still, it couldn't hurt to know what he and Nathan were talking about. If she sat still and concentrated, she could hear their voices coming from the kitchen.

"Maybe we can get Adam's blood from the Company," said Peter.

"You gave her what she asked for," said Nathan. "Isn't that enough? The whole point of going with her was to get our files."

"It wasn't the whole point," said Peter. "And...I know what it's like, Nathan. It's scary, having your entire life just--gone. A piece of paper and a photograph telling you who and what you are...it's not enough."

No response from Nathan.

"Claire doesn't have to do it, if she doesn't want to," said Peter. "If we could find Adam's blood--it's just something to think about."

Their voices grew quieter. Claire scrambled to her feet and crept up the stairs to her room, closing the door gently behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Claire couldn't sleep.

She kicked the covers aside and sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, glaring at nothing in particular.

She didn't have to help Elle. She couldn't. She wouldn't. If Peter wanted to do it, well then he could go ahead, no matter how ridiculous and stupid it clearly was. But she, Claire, didn't owe Elle anything--not after everything the Bishops had done to her family. So the Company had screwed with Elle. Welcome to the club. She'd just have to suck it up and deal. And why did Peter want to bother with her, anyway? They weren't even friends.

_"It's scary, having your entire life just--gone. A piece of paper and a photograph telling you who and what you are...it's not enough."_

Claire remembered her mom's bright, empty smile on some mornings, after her dad had gotten back from one of his "business trips." Sudden gaps in her memory: sometimes only minutes, at other times, entire days.

After one missed school trip, she'd always been careful to remind her mom twice about permission slips. And it had almost always been her dad who drove her to and from football games and cheerleading practice.

She'd put it down to absent-mindedness. She'd thought her mom was just like that: a little flaky, a little erratic. But how much of it was Sandra Bennet, and how much was what had been done to her?

And if her blood cured Elle--if it worked--it could cure her mother, too.

Claire got out of bed, and went in search of Peter.

* * *

Elle sat on the sofa in the living room, scuffing her heels on the Persian rug. The walls were painted yellow. Whose idea was that? Everybody knew that yellow totally washed you out. Well, at least it was better than green, but only by a little. She ran her hand over the raised embroidery of the sofa cushions, absent-mindedly tracing out the patterns with her fingertips as she looked around her.

You could barely move an inch in this place without knocking over a family photograph. They were everywhere--on the mantelpiece, on the side tables, even on the piano. Wow, those Petrellis really loved each other, huh. Wonder what the wife thought about that. If she was even here anymore, which she didn't appear to be.

"Elle?" She turned to see Peter come into the room, holding a case in one hand. His brother was hovering behind him as usual, like some kind of bodyguard.

Okay, this was it. This was what she'd been waiting for. This was what she wanted.

But everything was upside down. She was supposed to have the blood. She was supposed to be doing the saving. She was supposed to be the one in control. How did this happen?

"This'll probably heal your arm, too. You'll have to pretend it's still hurt--keep the sling on." Peter kneeled in front of her, opening the case. "Did you bring it?"

"Yeah."

She reached into her pocket and got out the picture of Bob. She transferred it to her right hand, leaving the left arm free for the injection. She'd borrowed the picture from her dad's office: she didn't have any of her own. He wasn't like the Petrellis, family photos everywhere. Just this one on his desk.

In the picture, he was smiling. He was really proud of that fish. And she'd make him proud, too. She would. After this.

Claire sat down next to her.

"Not too close," said Elle, raising her hand. "Unless you want to be zapped. Again."

Claire glared back at her. "Believe me, this isn't my idea of fun either."

"Oh, I don't know." Elle turned back to Peter, trailing a finger down his face. "Depends what you're into."

"Not now, Elle." Peter turned away to remove a syringe from his bag.

She smiled. "Then later?"

"Elle."

He was serious. Fine, she'd stop. For now.

"Claire, hold out your arm."

Elle watched him draw the blood, wiping a wad of cotton across the soft skin, just inside the crook of her elbow. Slipping the needle in. Rich dark red welling up into the barrel.

He must have done this before--he was a nurse. She'd read that in his file, too.

Claire was biting her lower lip, closing her eyes. Elle wondered if it hurt. She hoped it did. _Stings like a bitch, doesn't it?_

"Elle, your turn. Look at the picture, and think about your dad." Peter lifted the syringe, the glass flashing silver in the light.

She pulled back, startled.

"Are you okay?" He paused, watching her.

Elle blurted out, "I'm scared." Why was she shaking? God, pull yourself together, you idiot. But the words just kept coming. "I don't like needles."

"Oh." Peter put the syringe down. "I forgot--of course, the Company must've--I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "I'm fine. It was a long time ago."

She ran her fingers over the rough fabric of her jeans, first with, then against the grain. She couldn't let them see her like this. She wasn't Claire. She wasn't some whiny little crybaby who went running to Daddy every time she broke a nail. Her dad asked _her_ to solve _his_ problems.

She was fine. Fine. Damn his pity. Damn him for looking at her like that, like he understood, like he was sorry. Quick. Give him something snappy. Something mean. Something that would shut him up.

Elle opened her mouth, ready with a quick retort. But before she could say anything, Peter placed both hands gently on hers.

"It's okay," he said. "If you need time. Or, if you've changed your mind--you don't have to do this, if you don't want to."

What was he doing? _She_ did the touching. That was _her_ thing.

His hands were warm. He was still watching her.

Maybe he did understand.

"No." She turned her arm so that her palm faced upwards, still cradled in his. She wasn't shaking anymore. Good. "Just do it."

Elle concentrated on the photograph. Her father was still smiling.

She looked back up at Peter. "Please."

* * *

**12 years old**

They were both staring at her, looking so goddamn smug and pleased with themselves. If only they saw what she could do--they wouldn't be so cocky.

The man leaned forward. "Tell us about your earliest memory, Elle. The first thing you remember since you were born."

"Sure." She smiled brightly. "Where do you want me to start? The screaming, the ambulance, the people being burned alive?"

"Anything that you remember." He nodded. "Anything at all. Just take your time."

"Hmm. Let. Me. See." Elle placed one finger on her chin, pretending to think it over. "Nope, sorry. Lost it."

"Now, Elle." The woman frowned. Wow. She had a _really_ bad dye job. And who painted their nails red anymore? Geez, lady, get with the program.

Yap, yap, yap. She was still talking. "We're doing this for you, remember. Why don't you just do as we say? It'll be best for you in the long run."

"What is this, Good Cop, Bad Cop?" Elle popped a stick of gum into her mouth. That always drove them crazy.

The man was smiling again. Yup, definitely good cop-bad cop. "Did you learn that in a movie?"

"Nuh-uh." She shook her head, her braids whipping around her face. "I'm going to _do_ it. To people we catch."

Slowly, deliberately, she blew a large bubble. She waited for it to pop, before pulling the gum back into her mouth with her tongue.

"I learned it here." She smiled back at the man, cracking the gum in her mouth. "I learned a lot of things. Like how to kill people."

The woman looked scared. Goody. This was going to be fun, fun, fun.

"I could kill you." Now she looked really scared. The corner of her eye was twitching. Hee. "Do you want to see?"

"I think that's enough for today." They both got up. Look at them trying to act cool. But Elle knew that they were this close to running like rabbits. She turned towards the window. Her father was standing on the other side.

Now he was talking to the shrinks. They were shaking their heads. Let them. What did they know about her? She could do anything. Be anything. She'd show them.

Her father turned to look at her. She waved.

He didn't wave back.

* * *

**10 years old**

"Good. Now try sixty volts."

"No problem." Elle lifted her finger and zapped a bolt of electricity at the target. "Bull's eye!"

Bob leaned over and checked the monitor. "Sixty-two volts. Excellent. Now again."

Elle rolled her eyes. "But I've already done sixty. I can go higher."

Her father shook his head. "Accuracy should always be a higher priority than brute force, Elle. I've told you that many times. Now, again."

"Fine." She turned back to the target. How much longer did she have to do this kid stuff, anyway? But her dad was right. He was always right.

Okay, sixty volts. No problem.

She closed one eye, took aim, and fired.

* * *

**8 years old**

Elle held Bob's hand as she walked through the hallways. People turned to look at her as she passed.

Of course they looked. Of course they stared. She was special. She lifted her chin, holding her head a little higher.

"Is this where you work, Daddy?"

"Yes." Her father stopped in front of a white door. "And this is where you'll live, too, from now on."

"Really?"

"Yes." He took out a key, and turned it in the lock. "I need you here with me. I'm going to teach you how to help me with my work."

Elle nodded. "Okay."

Bob bent down to look her in the eye. "What I'm about to tell you now is very important. You are a very gifted child, Elle. You can do great things. And the first thing you must learn, is how to stand alone."

He let go of her hand, disentangling her fingers from his. Elle tried to hold on for a second, then let her arm fall to her side.

"Good girl." He stood up. "Are you ready?"

Elle nodded.

"Excellent." Bob opened the door. Elle caught a glimpse of a white iron bedframe and a white wooden chair in front of a small desk.

They walked in.

"Welcome to your new home." Her father smiled. "I know you're going to make me proud."

* * *

**7 years old**

"It hurts."

"Just once more, Elle, you can do it."

"No."

"Come on, Elle, be a good girl."

White coats and rubber gloves and hands touching her, putting things on her arms and legs and head, the smell of something burning, bones screaming and splintering with pain.

Make it stop.

"I want my daddy. Please." Screaming now. "I want my dad!"

"You can see your father, Elle, if you just do this. Come on, kiddo."

"No!"

Voices whispering, faces hovering above her head before disappearing again.

"Maybe we should stop."

"No, he said to keep at it until she reached her limit."

"This is her limit. She's just a little girl."

"She won't even remember this tomorrow. You want to be the one to go back there and tell him we couldn't do it? It's his daughter. His call."

They were back.

"Elle. You can do it. Just one more time."

A flash--a surge of power--then darkness.

"There you go. Well done."

* * *

Peter watched as Elle gasped, her hand stiffening in his. It was working.

He looked down at the picture clutched in her other hand--it showed Bob wearing a fishing hat, holding out an enormous salmon. He looked completely different from the Company employee that Peter had known at Hartsdale. This must have been taken on a vacation: a family trip, maybe. He wondered if Elle had been there, too.

Peter froze as the blood rushed to his head, a sudden roaring filling his ears. He knew this feeling: he'd experienced it before, when he'd been standing in Adam's warehouse holding that picture of him and Nathan.

He was remembering.

* * *

**9 and 6 years old**

Peter stepped his way along the lake, being careful not to slip on the wet rocks. His parents were out of sight, sitting on the grass, waiting for their friends to arrive. His mother had told him to stay close, but he'd managed to get away before she noticed.

He pushed his way through a bunch of yellowish-green grass that came up to his chest, imagining that he had a dog next to him. His dad didn't approve of dogs: he thought they were messy and smelly. If he had a dog, though, it would be brown with white patches. He'd call it Bruno. He'd toyed with the idea of calling it Nathan, but it just didn't feel right. Nathan was Nathan--there was only one of him in the entire world.

Peter wished he had Nathan with him, so they could go exploring together. Nathan knew everything about sailing and hunting and fishing. He knew which berries were safe to eat and which weren't, and he knew how to fix you up if you hurt yourself. It was Nathan who'd helped him to catch a trout last summer, when they'd gone fishing together. He'd let Peter reel it in at the end, all on his own. It was Nathan who'd told him that eating willow bark would help with pain.

There weren't any willows here, though: just fir trees. They smelled nice--sharp and clear. Nothing like the pine-scented air fresheners that they used in their summer house.

The patch of grass stopped abruptly, and Peter emerged to find himself on a rocky section of the shore. There was a girl leaning out towards the lake, trying to touch the water.

"Look out!" He yelled, but it was too late; she fell in with a giant splash.

Peter ran up to the rocks, calling for help--but no, everyone was too far away to hear. He waded into the cold water, remembering to kick off his shoes first.

What if she drowned? Oh, god, please don't let her drown. But no--it was okay, she was coming up again, flailing desperately with her arms and legs.

Lunging forward, Peter grabbed hold of one arm and pulled as hard as he could, walking back towards the shore. In his panic, he'd overestimated the danger: the water was only about two feet deep, and soon they were both lying on the rocks, sopping wet, cold, and covered in weeds and slime, but otherwise unharmed.

The girl sat up and promptly began to cry, her blonde hair sticking to her face and neck.

Peter got up, putting his hands in his pockets. What was he supposed to say to her?

She looked up at him, still crying, and put out her hand.

He reached out and took it. "Um." He shook his hair out of his eyes. "I'm Peter."

She didn't say anything.

"Er...who are you?"

Her sobs quietened a little. "Elle."

Well, at least she could talk.

"I'm cold," she said, sniffling. "And I'm hungry. And my new dress is all wet and dirty. Have you seen my dad?"

Uh-oh. He didn't even know who her father was, let alone where he was. "Um."

"Is he gone? He told me to stay close. I forgot. Did he leave?"

"I'm sure he's still here," said Peter. "Maybe if we just wait--"

"I'm scared." Elle's voice rose higher in panic. "Are we lost?"

"No, no we're not--" Then Peter had an idea. "Hey, Elle. Do you want to know a secret?"

She hesitated for a second--then nodded, scrubbing away her tears with the back of her hand.

"Come on." He helped her to her feet. "Be careful. Don't slip."

They walked past the rocks to another patch of rushes on the other side of the lake, Peter leading the way, holding Elle by the hand. He kept up a steady stream of talk, hoping that she wouldn't start crying again.

"I found it last year, when I was here with Nathan. That's my brother. He's the coolest person in the whole world. We're the only ones who know about it. Nobody else. And now you, too." He stopped and leaned out over the water. "There. Look. Just there."

She looked where he was pointing.

"It's a nest," he said. "See? We came earlier last year, so there were only eggs. But now, they've hatched into ducklings. Baby ducks."

"Ducklings," said Elle. "Can they fly?"

"Not yet," said Peter. "But they will. You know, when they're big and grown up."

Elle laughed. "They're cute."

Peter smiled. Okay, so maybe she wasn't so bad after all.

The ducklings came spilling out of the nest, led by their mother, bobbing towards them over the water. Elle reached out her hand to the soft little balls of down.

Then everything happened so quickly that Peter thought he'd imagined it.

There was a flash of blue light--the mother duck darted in front of her young--then she was lying on the shore twitching, kicking her legs feebly.

"What--" Peter scrambled to his feet. "What was that?"

Elle was sitting back on her heels, looking stunned.

Peter tried to think. Nathan would know what to do. But Nathan wasn't here.

The bird had stopped moving. He walked up to it, and poked it cautiously with the tip of one finger. The flesh under the soft downy feathers was as stiff as a board.

It was dead. They'd killed a bird.

"Here you are." A familiar voice spoke behind them. "We were wondering where you'd got to. You gave us quite a scare."

Peter turned to see Mr. Linderman standing behind them.

"Now, now, children, don't look so frightened. What's the matter?"

"The duck, it--I don't know how it--it just--"

"Ah." Linderman bent down, looking at the bird. "The maternal instinct. It overrides every primal urge, even the will to survive that is so deeply ingrained in us all. A valuable lesson for you both, even at your young age." He placed his hand on its back, stroking the glossy brown feathers. "Another important lesson: even the seemingly irreparable can be healed, given enough faith."

Linderman lifted his hand and stepped back. As Peter and Elle watched, the bird got to its feet, shook itself, then walked back into the water.

"There. Good as new."

Peter looked up at him in wonder. He'd never liked Mr. Linderman--he didn't like the way he looked at Nathan. And he smelled weird. But he was grateful now.

"Thank you."

"Oh, it was nothing. Now, it's time to get you both back to your parents."

They each took one of his hands and let him lead them around the lake.

When they got back, Peter saw his mother hurrying towards them.

"Where on earth were they? And what happened to them? Peter, what have you been doing to yourself? You're dripping wet."

"They're perfectly all right," said Linderman. He turned to the children. "Go and play, while I have a little talk with your mother, Peter. Your father will be along soon, Elle."

Peter walked away, his feet squelching in his shoes. Elle followed him. So her dad was friends with his parents. He wondered why he'd never seen her before.

She seemed kind of quiet. Come to think of it, she hadn't said a word since--"Are you okay?"

She nodded, sitting down. But she still didn't say anything.

His mother was still talking to Mr. Linderman. "She used her ability. Does Peter know what it is he saw?"

"I imagine that the full significance of what happened is beyond him at this point."

"But he will realize it. Later on."

Just then, another man walked up to his mother. He was wearing a hat and glasses, and carrying a fishing rod. Peter vaguely remembered seeing him somewhere before. A Christmas party, maybe?

"I have a good feeling about today," he said. "I'm aiming for a personal best."

"We have more important matters to worry about at present than your fishing prowess," said Angela. "How you choose to raise your daughter is your business. But if you are going to bring her into contact with my sons, then I would prefer that she not demonstrate her abilities in front of them."

"Perhaps it was unwise to bring the children at all," said Linderman.

"Yes, I agree," said the other man. "We will know better in the future. And don't worry about Peter, Angela. You of all people know that we are well-equipped to handle such cases. He doesn't even have to know this happened."

* * *

Peter came to himself to find Elle staring back at him.

"Did you," he said, "I mean, were you--"

"I have to go." She stood up, wrenching her hand away from his.

"Are you all right? Do you--"

"I'm fine." She almost spat the words out. "It's just time I was getting home, that's all. Bye."

She turned and ran out of the room. A second or two later, they heard the front door slam behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Author's Note: Last chapter, to be followed by an Epilogue (which is now posted.) Thanks to everyone who read and stuck with this story._

* * *

Elle walked into her room and sat down on the bed.

This room, this building...they'd been her entire world for so long that she'd never even considered how she'd come to live here. Now she knew.

She flopped onto her back, hearing the springs creak under her, and stared at the ceiling. Bennet hadn't lied. Her dad had done those things to her--but he'd had a good reason. He must have. He just wanted her to be the best. He wasn't like Bennet, trying to make Claire normal when she wasn't.

_"I didn't want Claire to turn into you."_

As if that little cheerleader could ever be like her.

She gripped the mattress tightly, her nails digging into the cotton sheets. Her dad loved her. She just had to hold onto that. She had to.

She began to clench her hands into fists, then realized: she was still holding the photograph. She'd have to put it back before he noticed.

Elle walked quickly along the halls, for once heedless of her surroundings, bumping into several Company employees who looked at her strangely as she passed. She stopped at a corner and took several deep breaths.

Everything she saw triggered a new memory: vague, long-buried sensations of pain and anger that chipped away at her illusions, taking away everything she'd known about herself, about her father. A glimpse of a white lab coat--pills being forced over the back of her tongue; a window with the blinds drawn--an entire week spent in a cell without a glimpse of sunlight. And electricity--the entire building was full of it, running through the walls and under her feet and over her head, thrumming along her nerves, and one time, she now knew, she'd been plugged into the mains, all the lights and machines and switches turning on and off to the beat of her heart.

_"You know, the hardest thing a parent ever does, is to have to see their child in pain."_

No. Sometimes pain was good. Pain made you strong. Pain made you the best that you could be. Her dad hadn't done this to her. He'd done it _for_ her. Leave the training wheels and band-aids to the Bennets and Petrellis. Who needed all that weepy-huggy-touchy family drama, anyway?

And besides, she hadn't given her dad a chance to explain himself. And when he did, then he'd hug her, tell her he was proud of her, tell her she meant more to him than anything else in the world, anything, tell her it had all been a mistake. A misunderstanding. One more deep breath. Okay. She was ready.

The office door was unlocked. Elle slipped inside, noting with relief that he still hadn't returned from his meeting. She sat down at the desk and replaced the photograph in its frame, being careful to put it back exactly as she had found it.

Now she knew when the picture had been taken, too. She felt a sudden stinging behind her eyes. No, she wasn't going to cry. Crying was for weaklings.

The door opened, making her sit up in a hurry.

"Daddy?"

Bob came up to the desk, setting his briefcase down on the floor. "Elle. What are you doing?"

Smile. Look perky. Corners of the mouth up, dimples out. There, that's it. "Just waiting for you." She crossed one leg over the other, swinging her foot.

"Here to give your report, I assume."

"Yup." She bounced up and walked around the desk. "What can I say? I'm an eager little beaver."

"Good." He sat down. "I'm pleased by your enthusiasm, Elle. But remember that all things are best kept in moderation."

Elle's smile faltered a little. "I--I just want to be a good girl, Daddy," she said. "I just want to make you proud."

"And you can, Elle. You've been doing very well these past few days." Her father placed his hands on the desk, spreading his fingers out on the polished wood. "I'm sure you won't disappoint me."

She should ask him now, before she lost her nerve. OK, here goes.

Elle opened her mouth, but Bob spoke first. "Bennet's here, by the way. I thought you might want to know."

"Oh," said Elle. "Is he working?"

"Of course not," said Bob. "I'm surprised at you, Elle. After everything Bennet has done, he has to be thoroughly vetted, interrogated, examined. We're holding him in Block 15."

Block 15. Vetted. Elle knew what that meant. And Bennet knew, too. He'd gone into this with his eyes open.

_"You'd be surprised what a father would do for his daughter."_

She looked back at Bob, who was reading through some notes on his computer.

"I have to admit that things looked shaky there for a while," he said, still staring at the monitor. "But our attempts at damage control have succeeded beautifully. We'll have the Company--and you--running like clockwork again in no time."

For a second, Elle didn't trust herself to speak. Then she said, "The Company's important, isn't it? More than anything."

Finally, he turned away from his notes and back to her. "I'm glad you've come to realize that."

Her father had lied to her. She'd been played.

No: he'd never lied. She'd just been too stupid to see the truth.

A jolt of electricity surged through Elle's arm and down to her fingertips. Just for that split second, she saw herself frying him, watching him writhe in pain, burning to a cinder like the others she'd killed.

But no--the moment had passed, the impulse was gone.

He was watching her. Did he suspect? No. He'd taught her too well.

Bob turned back to his notes. "And how are the Petrellis doing, these days?"

"They fell for your plan. Just like a bunch of suckers." She smiled, stretching her mouth until she could feel her cheek muscles starting to ache. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Excellent." He removed some folders from his briefcase, and began arranging them on his desk. "Well, I think we can cut down our meetings to once a week from now on, since you seem to be back on track. Now, run along."

"Don't worry, Daddy." Elle turned back at the door and took one last look at her father. "I'll remember everything you taught me."

* * *

Elle came out of the front doors and turned right, walking into a narrow alley next to the Hartsdale facility. She knew all the blind spots inside out, and this was one of them: no security cameras, no microphones.

She looked up at the slice of blue sky above her, blinking back tears, and stamped her foot. She wanted to hit something, goddamit. Or throw something. Or scream. Or just--_god_. Sparks flew out of her hands and ricocheted against the walls, leaving faint traces of smoke in the air.

She had to get the hell out of there.

* * *

Claire couldn't believe it. After everything they'd done for her--

"I knew it." She shook her head. "I told you it wasn't worth our time to help her."

"I don't know." Peter sat down next to her. "Maybe her memories freaked her out. We don't know what her dad did to her."

"We need to stop worrying about her and start worrying about us!" Claire resisted the urge to reach out and shake him. "She could be telling her dad to come after us right now."

"I don't think Bob would do something that hasty," said Nathan, walking into the room. He was interrupted by someone banging on the front door. Claire ran to open it.

Elle was standing outside.

"Oh." Claire put her hands on her hips. "It's you again. What, did you bring backup this time?"

She braced herself for a sharp response--but the other girl only said, "Is Peter here?"

"Elle?" Claire heard Peter's voice behind her.

Elle walked past Claire into the hallway. "I need to tell you something." She went on, clenching and unclenching her hands. "The files...the favor...It wasn't real. It was--it was my dad's idea."

There was something different about her, but Claire couldn't put her finger on it. Then she realized: she didn't seem like a Company employee anymore. Now, she just looked like an ordinary, frightened girl. And had she been crying? Claire couldn't be sure, but she thought she could recognize re-applied mascara when she saw it.

"Let me get this straight." Nathan had come out to join them. "You've been double-crossing us."

"Yeah." Elle flinched, but turned to face him. "You don't think my dad would let me find out where he hid the files, do you? That room, everything I showed you: it's all fake. The Company had them made for emergencies."

"They were supposed to lead us on the wrong track." Nathan's voice changed as the truth hit him. "Of course. Bob must have known what we were talking about in the vault--"

Elle nodded. "You were going to investigate your parents. The Company, the Virus, the bomb. My dad knew you wouldn't stop digging--so he decided to give you exactly what you wanted."

Claire let out a long breath. "Why should we believe you?" She stared at Elle, genuine curiosity blending with her anger. "You've been lying to us this whole time. What makes you think we'll trust you now?"

"You can read my mind if you want." Elle shrugged. "You can follow me, go see my dad, go to the Company, whatever. I don't care whether you believe me or not."

"She's telling the truth," said Peter. He was tilting his head to one side, the way Claire had seen Matt Parkman do it at the police station.

"Great, Peter," said Nathan. "You couldn't have done that three days ago?"

"I always forget," said Peter. "There's been a lot going on."

"What made you change your mind?" said Claire. "Something must have."

Elle hesitated, then said, "Your blood--that wasn't part of the plan. I didn't know--I remembered. I remembered everything. My dad--what he did to me --the Company..."

She looked at Claire, and said simply, "I don't have anything left."

Claire felt a flash of anger towards Bob. She remembered how calm and...and _businesslike_ he'd been when he'd brought her father's ashes. People like him--him and Thompson and Angela Petrelli--they were the ones who'd helped to hurt her mom and Peter and Nathan. And he'd hurt Elle, too. His own daughter.

"Hey, it's going to be okay." Peter stepped forward and put a hand on Elle's shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." A tear ran down her face. "Maybe I'll run away."

"Have you ever been in the real world?" Nathan looked skeptical. "Without being on Company business?"

"No."

"You wouldn't last ten minutes out there," said Nathan. "They'd find you and bring you back." He leaned against the doorway, thinking. "What else does Bob want you to do?"

Elle scrubbed away her tears. "I'm supposed to keep an eye on you. Wait until you go back and get your own files. Give you hints, if I have to." She turned to Peter. "He said you trust me, now. I'm supposed to, you know. Pretend to be your friend."

Peter looked back at her for a second, then said, "You don't have to pretend."

Elle's eyes widened. She said quietly, "You're not mad at me?"

"He's your dad," said Peter. "I get it. But if you're angry, you shouldn't run away. You should fight. With us."

"I should?"

Claire opened her mouth to protest. Sure, she didn't exactly hate Elle anymore. Well, not as much, anyway. And she did feel bad for her. And maybe this was the right thing to do. But that didn't mean she was ready to put on her cheerleading uniform and do cartwheels for Team Elle.

As if anticipating her reaction, Peter turned to her with the earnest, appealing look in his eyes that she knew so well. Claire hesitated. Okay. Maybe this wasn't the time to be petty. And something told her she would give in eventually. She might as well save time by doing it now. She could deal with it.

She sighed, and gave him a faint, almost imperceptible nod.

Peter nodded back, looking relieved, before turning to Elle. "Think about everything they did to you. Everything they did to us. We can't just let them get away with it."

"I guess." Elle still looked doubtful.

Peter gave her a wry smile. "Unless it's too much for you."

The uncertainty vanished from Elle's face. "As if."

"Then why don't you?"

"I didn't say no, did I?" Elle stood up straighter, and tossed her head, looking around at the others. "Fine, I'm in. You guys are going to need all the help you can get, anyway."

Claire resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Dangerous _and_ unstable. Great. "Just so we're clear," she said. "This doesn't mean I like you or anything."

Nathan had remained in the doorway for the past few minutes, thinking. He finally looked up. "Have you blown your cover?"

"I'm not stupid," said Elle.

"Then you can start by telling us what you know."

"It's not much," said Elle reluctantly. "He--he doesn't tell me everything. But...Bennet's with us. And he's not exactly Employee of the Month right now."

"We could get him out," said Claire. She couldn't believe the idea hadn't occurred to her before. "If we take down the Company, we could save him."

"One thing at a time," said Nathan. He nodded for Elle to go on.

"Well," she said. "My dad's been talking to your mom. A lot."

Claire saw Nathan and Peter exchange glances. Peter looked worried, but didn't say anything.

"You're going to be useful," said Nathan. "But don't think you're getting a free pass." He looked at Peter. "Keep checking on her."

"What do you think we should do?" asked Peter. "Do you want to go there tonight?"

"No," said Nathan. "We don't want them to think we suspect anything." He turned to Elle. "Come in."

Elle hesitated, turning to Peter, who gave her an encouraging nod. "Okay." She squared her shoulders, and walked with them into the living room.

"Now," said Nathan. "Talk."

Claire watched as Elle took a deep breath, clasping her hands together. She glanced at Peter, and saw that he was smiling at her. Apparently, they were a team now. Not exactly what she would have predicted a week ago, but it didn't feel that bad. It even felt good, in a weird kind of way. It was them against the Company.

_And this time,_ she thought, _maybe we can win._


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Peter turned off the engine and sat back, resting his hands on the steering wheel. He turned to look at Elle--she was staring out of the window, her burger and fries lying forgotten on the dashboard.

"Hey." He nudged her. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She turned to face him. "That brother of yours just loves bossing people around, huh?"

"Nathan always knows what to do," said Peter. "He'll take care of it, you'll see."

"He'd better," said Elle. "I can't believe he let go of the Starship Commander act long enough to let us out of there."

"Well, it's like he said--we've got to act normal," said Peter. "And thanks, by the way. For telling us about your dad. We could have gotten into a lot of trouble."

"It's no problem," said Elle. "Besides, I only told you because I was mad at him. I'm not doing this for your health."

"Yeah, I know. Still, thanks." He cleared his throat. "Listen. I didn't have a chance to tell you, before. But...I'm sorry. You know, about the kiss."

"Seriously? Because it was really good." She gave him a small grin--and for a second, he remembered how she'd tasted, the sharp metallic tang of electricity filling his mouth, lingering in the back of his throat.

"What? No, that's not what I--" Peter stopped, flustered. "I mean--"

"I know what you meant." Elle yawned, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Look, it's no biggie. Besides, as a diversionary tactic, it wasn't bad. I'll have to try it next time."

"It wasn't that simple."

The truth was, he still didn't really know why he'd done it. It had been a way of getting her to let her guard down, sure. But after four months of being alone, he'd wanted...something. Some kind of a connection.

They looked at each other for a few seconds. Peter wondered if she understood.

He decided to let it go, for now. "About your memories--are you okay with it? I know it can be pretty disorienting."

"I'll deal," said Elle. "I don't need therapy, or anything. I've had enough of shrinks to last me for the rest of my life."

"You might not need a therapist," said Peter. "But if you need a friend--I meant what I said, before. You don't have to pretend."

"Thanks." She reached forward and popped another fry into her mouth, licking the salt off her fingers. "Hey, did you remember the ducks, too?"

"Yeah," said Peter. "I guess my parents didn't want me knowing about the Company."

"Same difference," said Elle. "We both got used, in the end." She leaned back and closed her eyes, linking her hands behind her head.

"We don't know that."

"Believe what you want." She opened her eyes again, turning to look at him. "I did."

"I guess we'll see when we find our files. The real ones," said Peter.

"We can get yours," said Elle. "I don't need mine. Not anymore."

Peter reached forward, pretending to fiddle with the stereo. For the first time, he was beginning to wonder if Nathan had been right about their mother. Maybe it might be better not to find out.

"Are you scared?"

She frowned. "Of what? My dad?"

"Well, not just him," said Peter. "Of everything. Of what's going to happen."

"No." The answer came just a little too quickly. He waited for her to continue.

She looked down at her hands. "A little."

"Me too," he said.

They sat for a few moments in silence. Peter glanced out of the window at the darkened street outside. "So. Where is it you wanted to go?"

"Somewhere where there's a rollercoaster."

"Oh." Peter thought back to a conversation they'd once had. "So, what? Today's a day for trying new things?"

"Pretty much," said Elle. "I thought I'd never been swimming. Turns out I have, I just forgot. So I figured this was next. But I don't know where to find one."

"I know where we can go," said Peter. "Coney Island. Nathan used to take me, when I was a kid. Do you want me to come with you, buy you a ticket?" He knew what her answer would be, but he asked anyway.

"Well, there was one more item on the list." Elle smiled mischievously, one corner of her mouth curving up. "I thought we could kill two birds with one zap, this time."

Peter could feel her excitement in the shiver of electricity over his skin, the hum of current along the roof of his mouth. He sat back in his seat, considering. They had a couple of hours to spare. If Bob found out--well, he'd just think Elle was acting her part. And it had been a long time since he'd been to a theme park.

He turned and smiled back at her. "Why not?"

Elle handed a cup to Peter. Mega-Jumbo-size. He was paying, she might as well splurge. She'd be higher than the Energizer Bunny in about ten minutes.

"What is this?" He was staring at the drink like it was radioactive or something. Pot, meet kettle.

"It's a Slusho." She peeled the paper off her straw and stuck it into the lid. "Blueberry Zoom. My favorite."

Peter held the cup gingerly between his fingers, inspecting the bright blue contents. "This doesn't look like it's even distantly related to a blueberry."

Elle smiled to herself. Aw, poor puppy. He was cute when he was confused. "You've seriously never had a Slusho?"

He just gave her a look. "My family wasn't all that crazy about junk food."

It figured that the Petrellis were food snobs on top of everything else. "Oh, just try it. It won't kill you." She handed him a straw. As their fingers met, she felt a shock pass through the air, making them jump back.

They both spoke at the same time. "Was that you?"

Peter laughed. "I don't know. Maybe it was both of us."

They left the stall and walked slowly through the grounds. They didn't talk: Elle decided that she kind of liked the silence. It was the first warm day they'd had in weeks, but there was still a cool breeze blowing, lifting her hair gently off her shoulders. The air smelled of popcorn and burnt sugar.

She looked around, unconsciously slipping into surveillance mode. Possible spy, eleven o'clock. Keep near the shadows, check for open doorways in case of emergencies.

Then she realized--this wasn't a stakeout. And even if her dad had sent someone to spy on her, they'd just see Elle, model Company employee, doing her job and pulling a fast one on Peter Petrelli. She could do whatever she wanted. She could go on the rides. She could get ice cream. She could stay out late. She could buy silly souvenirs. Maybe one of those furry hats with bobbles.

The sense of freedom rushed to her head, making her feel giddy. She wanted to jump and shout and laugh and spin around like that chick at the beginning of _The Sound of Music_. She forced herself to keep walking--he'd think she'd gone crazy. Be cool, Elle. No dancing. No singing.

She looked around and around her, taking in the multi-colored lights, the screaming children, the endless stalls of pretzels and doughnuts and cotton candy, until her glance settled on a clown handing out balloons. They sprouted from his hand like giant, shiny flowers, red and pink and green and blue and yellow, straining towards the sky.

She could get one. Then she could set it free, someplace high up, and watch it sail away.

"Do you want to go over there?" She turned to see Peter looking down at her. He nodded towards the clown. "The balloons, I mean."

How the hell had he known that? She looked at him suspiciously. "Are you still doing the mind reading thing? 'Cause you can save that for when we're actually working."

"What? No." He shrugged. "You just looked like you wanted one, that's all."

"Later," she said. She pulled a leaflet out of her pocket and skimmed through it. "After the Cyclone. Or the Screaming Demon. Or the Wonder Wheel. Or all three."

He nodded. "Okay."

They walked on for a while without talking, until they got to the nearest rollercoaster. There was a crowd of people milling around the entrance.

"You'd better get over there before everyone else does," said Peter.

She started to head over to join the line, then turned around to face him. "Aren't you coming?"

"I think I'll stay on the ground for now."

Elle walked back, slurping on her Slusho. She had a sudden inspiration. Why not give Peter a taste of his own medicine?

"What are you, afraid?" She looked straight at him. She drew the straw out of the cup and pulled it through her teeth, feeling the icy coldness numbing her mouth, the sugar rush hitting her right between the eyes. "No, I get it," she said, pouting. "You just like to be in control. Sorry I asked. Won't happen again."

Peter looked away, before turning back to her. He smiled, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. There you go. Bingo.

"Okay," he said. "One ride. That's it."

Elle gave a little hop of excitement. To hell with being cool. She was going to ride on a rollercoaster.

"That's the spirit!" she said. "Come on! Last one there is a rotten egg!"

She turned around, and began to run.

THE END


End file.
